LUCIEN

  If anyone could steal the air out of a room, it was Corin Clarendon.

  A hush fell over the Grand Ballroom as the doors opened. She told him as they walked, if you did not know where to look, look at their eyebrows.

  “Is that what you do?” he asked quietly as the first wave of camera flashes hit them like a physical force.

  “No.” Corin tilted her chin just enough to catch the light. “I always know where to look.”

  That smile. Lucien should not mistake it was for him. That was the golden smile she used with the world. The smile of the perfect Clarendon Rose.

  Lucien returned it and it confused the onlookers. He could hear the murmurs rippling through the crowd as they passed. He caught bits of it, something that sounded like '…being a de facto fiancé seemed more than just business'.

  Lucien scoured the room, his mind running a digital tally of the names he had memorized. Everyone had showed up. He watched as Corin led him through the throng, passing the Rothwells without so much as a glance toward Faust. The Head Girl was casually ignoring the Head Boy.

  Did they fight?

  “Lucien.”

  She tugged his arm slightly as a gentleman approached. Grey-haired and prominent of feature, he strangely reminded Lucien of someone who shared those same traits—only with much fancier socks.

  Salazar Ascor—Alistair's grandfather—offered his hand first, and Lucien accepted it.

  “Lucien Green. The boy I've heard so much about.”

  The boy. Lucien felt the sharp edge of disdain as the man spoke the word. Two seconds in, and he already hated him.

  “Senator Ascor. I hope Alistair had only nice things to say about me,” Lucien countered.

  The Senator gave Lucien a slight, dismissive nod and turned his full attention to Corin. “Good to see you, Corin.”

  She offered her hand, and the Senator bent down to kiss it. As Lucien had learned from the dossiers, the Ascors were a ducal line and had been fierce supporters of the Clarendons since the days of the monarchy.

  “I hope to see you at the inauguration of the housing development we have been working on with Clarendon Industries,” Salazar said, his eyes flicking back to Lucien. “And perhaps you may bring this Mr. Green—if he is still Holder by that time.”

  “I'd be delighted, Senator,” Lucien responded, meeting the not-so-subtle jibe head-on. “As I don't see being a Holder a temporary thing.”

  Salazar Ascor glared, his jaw clenching as if he were swallowing his own venom.

  “Senator,” an aide appeared at his elbow. “Senator Brightman is on the line, sir.” Salazar Ascor took the phone in his hand. He gave Corin a curt, stiff nod, and vanished back into the crowd.

  She tilted her head towards Lucien. “Congratulations, you just made a new enemy.”

  Lucien grinned, proud of himself.

  “Don't praise me yet.” He said, lowering his voice to a tone he used only for her. “The night is young... I can make more.”

  The music stopped suddenly, cutting Corin off before she could say a word. Then came an announcement.

  The Chairman of Clarendon Industries walked in, every bit the man Lucien expected: regal, wrapped in a dangerous kind of silence. Through his glasses, he looked in their direction. Lucien felt Corin still, her fingers tightening on his arm. But she kept her eyes up, meeting her father’s, and Lucien did the same.

  There was no exchange of words. The Chairman walked to the podium and opened the Gala. A standard speech, a calmness reserved for events like this. He could see it then—how Corin and her father were almost perfect mirrors of one another.

  Dinner was served in the Grand Ballroom as Corin led Lucien out of the hall. They, along with a select few, would be dining with the Chairman.

  The Small Table. That was what she and Henrietta called it, though Lucien doubted there was anything small about it. Claremont had a different way of defining the size of things.

  Lucien recognized the faces walking with them toward the private dining room. The heads of the families, Rothwell, Vandercourt, and Ascor.

  As Lucien had thought, the table was not small. It was a long, elaborate setup that seated ten people. The guests had started to filter inside, and everyone remained standing until Chairman Clarendon arrived.

  Corin sat directly across from her father, with Lucien on her right and his new friend, Senator Ascor, on her left. Henrietta sat facing Salazar Ascor directly. To the Chairman's right was Robert Spencer.

  Head of Clarendon Industries Engineering, the Chairman’s most trusted man and Corin’s uncle. He was an elegant man, far more generous with his smiles than the man to his left.

  The dinner service went smoothly. Lucien used the right forks, no crumbs fell on his lapel, and he did not spill a drop of his champagne.

  The guests spoke to one another, interacting exactly as one might expect at an event like this. Lucien was seated next to an oil heiress who talked of nothing but her dogs. The distant, muffled swell of the orchestra in the ballroom mixed smoothly with the soft conversation across the table.

  It was then that Lucien felt the Chairman’s eyes fixed on him. The man set his glass on the table and spoke.

  “What do you think of Clarendon Industries, Mr. Lucien Green?”

  Lucien felt the tension spike. Across from him, Robert Spencer smirked, waiting for a rehearsed, sycophantic answer.

  “I admire the boldness,” Lucien’s voice was remarkably steady. He didn’t look at his plate. He looked directly at the man. “Most companies are content to iterate. Clarendon Industries is at the forefront of innovation because it isn’t afraid to break the things it built. And...”

  He paused, a small, thoughtful smile playing on his lips. “I admire the heart—your commitment to making that technology accessible to those who couldn't otherwise dream of it.”

  A sharp, dry bark of a laugh came from his left. Augustus Rothwell—Faust’s father, a man with a face like a hatchet—shook his head.

  “They told us you were clever.” Rothwell’s voice was dripping with condescension. “They did not mention that you are remarkably naive. Those 'charities' are a ledger entry—a calculated move to offset the tax burden of the quarterly gains. You have much to learn, it seems. ‘Heart,’ you say? It is just another word for a write-off.”

  The table chuckled. Robert Spencer took a slow sip of wine, enjoying the humiliation.

  Lucien simply smiled. He waited for the laughter to die down, then picked up his champagne flute.

  “That may well be true, Mr. Rothwell,” Lucien conceded softly. “But if the Clarendons perform charity solely for tax mitigation, I would have expected to see similar figures from the rest of you. Rothwell Corp, Vander Holdings, Ascor Limited...”

  Lucien took a slow, deliberate sip. “I’ve seen this year’s public disclosures. I could count on one hand the initiatives your firms support. Vander Holdings and Ascor Limited tied their total philanthropic spend last year at 0.4% of their net. Rothwell Corp didn’t even hit 0.2%.”

  He set the glass down with a quiet clink.

  “In comparison, Clarendon Industries spends nearly double that. It’s odd, isn’t it? You say you’re all seeking the same tax benefits, and yet Clarendon Industries spends more on these charities. Perhaps... Clarendon is simply a cut above the rest in every metric. Don’t you think?”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The silence that followed Lucien's dissection of the Rothwell portfolio was absolute.

  Augustus Rothwell's face had turned a mottled, bruised purple, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

  Lucien didn't wait for a rebuttal and had moved on.

  “That’s the Clarendon brand, sir.” He turned his eyes back to the Chairman. “Competency that inspires loyalty from the people they serve. Something that would not be possible without the efficiency of the Spencer Endowment Fund.”

  He turned his gaze toward Corin and raised his glass. “To your brilliance and dedication, Corin.”

  The table went quiet as Lucien drank alone after toasting her. Corin remained in her seat, staring at him, her thoughts at that moment unreadable to him.

  Robert Spencer's hand tightened on his glass until the stem creaked. Rothwell looked as if he might have a stroke.

  Then, the Chairman stood.

  The movement was slow, deliberate, and terrifying. Lucien braced himself to be whipped. But Gordon only reached for his own glass, the heavy crystal catching the light.

  “To Corin,” the Chairman said. His voice wasn't warm—it was a command. A recognition.

  Henrietta was the first to raise her glass, a bright grin plastered on her face. The rest of the table followed suit like a wave of falling dominoes. One by one, the titans of industry stood, their movements stiff, their eyes fixed on the girl they had always seen merely as the “Chairman’s daughter”.

  “To Corin,” the chorus echoed.

  She stared at her father, who gave her a slight nod. Lucien knew the weight of that simple gesture. Only then did Corin lift her glass and accept the toast.

  ***

  It did not take long for the party to rejoin the others in the Grand Ballroom. Chairman Clarendon opened the floor for the waltz before retreating to a private room with his secretary and Robert Spencer.

  As a rule, the hostess leads the dance. Corin and Lucien took to the centre of the floor to perform the evening’s most awaited first waltz.

  “I won’t forget what you did for me today,” Corin told Lucien as she gave him her hand.

  It was the closest thing to a ‘thank you’ she had ever said to him.

  Lucien brought her close and they began to move. Serenade for Strings in E Major, he recalled as the music filled the room.

  “I didn’t do anything, Corin.”

  She leaned closer than the rules—or she—usually allowed.

  “If you say so.”

  The world around them seemed to disappear. The steps came naturally to Lucien as he kept his eyes on her. He had been dreading this dance for a week, yet he felt a sharp sense of sorrow the moment it ended.

  “I’m thinking... I didn’t even get to say ‘Happy Birthday’ to the Chairman,” Lucien whispered to her. “Perhaps next time I should start with that?”

  Corin laughed, a sound that drew the attention of every eye in the room, including Lucien’s. The tension in her body had vanished. All while she was with him, it felt as though she had been holding her breath. But now she smiled, and it felt real.

  “May I have the next dance?” A voice behind him pulled him from his thoughts. It was Alistair.

  He looked like the perfect gentleman. Lucien wondered what socks he had on today.

  “I could twirl you,” Lucien offered.

  “Thank you. But I meant to dance with the lady.”

  Corin loosened her grip on Lucien’s arm and accepted Alistair’s offer.

  “All right,” Lucien called out. “Your loss.”

  Lucien meant to sit down, having done his part, but ladies from all fronts began rushing toward him to introduce themselves. He was lucky to escape thanks to Henrietta; her very presence dispersed them like an anthill being struck.

  “Henrietta, am I ever glad to see you,” he said, taking the cane from her hand and leading her to dance with him.

  “I can’t promise to match that first dance you had with the Rose, but I can keep the others at bay until she returns to your grasp.” Her lips pursed in a smile that meant so many things he did not like. “Each time I see you, dear boy, you do not fail to entertain me. That was a stunt you pulled at dinner—one only a fool would try.”

  “It went well, didn't it?”

  “More than well, if I may say so myself,” she said as he led her in a glide across the room. “Enjoy your spoils of war tonight. People will be talking about you. You looked into the eyes of power and did not tremble. You might be a fool, but you are a bold one.”

  The corner of his mouth curled into a smirk.

  ***

  The guests began to trickle out as the night deepened. After an evening of lavish socializing and intoxication, whether from the attention or the choice vintage, they retreated to their town cars to return home.

  Lucien watched the Billard students follow their wealthy families as the gala ended. He and Sinclair shared a few quips before leaving. Alistair did the same. Victor and Faust watched him with disdain from afar before they left with their fathers.

  Everyone had somebody.

  Somehow, that made him feel alone, in spite of the night's victory. He had paced himself with the champagne all evening, never letting himself get drunk, no matter how tempting it became. He sipped what remained in his glass before deciding it was time to go.

  “Lucien, dear,” Henrietta approached. “I’ll be right outside. I can drop you off at Billard, if you’d like?”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  He looked for Corin to say goodbye and found her thanking the staff, just as she had at the fundraiser.

  “Corin.”

  She turned at the sound of her name.

  “Henrietta offered to drop me off. I just came to—”

  “Stay.”

  Lucien was awestruck. His mouth stopped moving at her offer.

  “Your room is ready. Guilford will be heartbroken if you leave without using it.”

  “But Henrietta—”

  “I’ll send word to Henrietta. Stay,” she repeated, then went back to speaking with the staff.

  Aberforth, the valet, brought Lucien to the suite where he had changed earlier. “Should you need anything, Master Green, don’t hesitate to press the button,” he said, pointing to one on the wall. “Your bath has been drawn, and Mr. Guilford has prepared a change of clothes inside. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No. Thank you, Aberforth.”

  “Good evening, sir,” he said, leaving Lucien to himself.

  Lucien soaked in the bath, washing away the remnants of the Gala. He emerged wearing a fresh white shirt, his hair still damp. He stopped buttoning it, leaving the top two undone, then went to the shelf and picked a book.

  The room was equipped with a mini library filled with titles he was currently into—it was as if someone had pulled his Billard library logs and placed everything here.

  He reached for a volume on the shelf.

  Plato.

  Lucien sat on the chaise near the window and began to read while his hair dried. The house had quieted. The Gala’s music had dissolved into a distant silence.

  Sleep did not come, even after he had reached the halfway point of the book. Then, there was a knock.

  Without looking up, he said, “Come in.” He expected Guilford, or perhaps a maid with a glass of milk he hadn't asked for—or whatever it was rich people took before bed.

  He did not expect Corin.

  The door shut softly behind her.

  She stood there in a white silk dress shirt that fell to mid-thigh, the ribbons at the wrists untied and trailing. Several buttons were open, careless rather than deliberate. Her legs were bare so were her feet. Her face had been washed clean of its evening precision. Her hair, unpinned, fell loose over her shoulders.

  She held a bottle by the neck.

  Half empty.

  “Let's celebrate,” she said lightly.

  Her voice did not match her posture. There was something off-balance in it.

  “It's late, Corin.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You shouldn't be here.”

  “This is my house.”

  She crossed the room without invitation and sat on the edge of his chaise, then extended the bottle toward him.

  “Drink. It's from me. You're particularly fond of this one. Church told me.”

  He recognized the label. The same bottle that had been sent to his dormitory the night he became top boy. There was barely enough left inside to call it a gift.

  “How much did you have?”

  “Few sips.”

  A lie.

  “You're drunk.”

  “I'm not.”

  She was. Not incoherent, but drunker than Lucien would have liked.

  “Come,” he said gently as he stood. “I'll walk you back to your room.”

  “My room's far.”

  “You managed to come here. You can walk back.”

  Corin held unto the bottle tightly and glared.

  “Do you need me to carry you?”

  That made her stand.

  She pressed the bottle into his hand and walked past him toward the bed as if the conversation had concluded.

  “My room's far,” she repeated.

  Then she lay down on top of the covers.

  “I'll sleep here.”

  “What?”

  He nearly dropped the champagne.

  She had already turned onto her side, one leg bent slightly, the white fabric shifting carelessly. Lucien saw a peek of blue lace. He looked away immediately, his face heating up. He pulled a blanket over her, tucking the silk away from sight.

  Lucien stayed close for a moment, waiting for her to end this play of pretending to sleep but she did not wake. He retreated to the chair and picked up his book again.

  He read the same paragraph four times.

  The words refused to settle as he felt her presence filled the room like sound.

  He closed the book and began reciting softly from memory instead, voice low and steady, as if anchoring himself to something older and less volatile than the girl sleeping in his bed.

  After a while, Corin stirred.

  Her hand slipped from beneath the blanket and fell toward the edge of the mattress.

  He watched it, praying silently for her to tuck it back herself. But the hand did not move.

  She's trying to kill me. He muttered to himself.

  Lucien walked back to the foot of the bed. Move closer, his brain complained and his feet did. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

  For a few stolen seconds, he allowed himself to look.

  Without paint and diamonds and posture, she seemed almost unreal. Regal even in sleep.

  He still could not believe he had survived the evening with her hand on his arm and her body aligned with his. So close. He pushed the thought away.

  He reached gently for her fallen hand. His own trembled at the contact of touching her without gloves. Her skin was warmer than he expected.

  Soft.

  Lucien guided her hand back beneath the blanket. Her fingers tightened suddenly around his.

  He froze.

  Her eyes were open. Not fully aware. But watching him through the haze of sleep.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked quietly.

  “Lucien...”

  His name from her mouth felt different like this. Not a command.

  Just his name.

  He bent down, before he realized he was doing it.

  “What is it, Corin?”

  She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if trying to remember something important.

  “Can you keep a secret?” she murmured.

  His throat tightened.

  Before he could answer, she shifted forward and pressed her lips against the line of his jaw.

  He felt the imprint of her lips against skin, lingering there. Lucien's hand gripped the sheets so hard the fabric creased.

  “Our secret,” she whispered against his cheek.

  Then she sank back into the pillow, her fingers loosening beneath the blanket, releasing him.

  Lucien did not know what to do. He sat there for a minute, breathing carefully.

  What was that? A test?

  He stood and returned to the chair.

  He did not sleep. Not for the rest of the night.